The First Step
by myahoo
Summary: Oneshot. Two months after Voldemort's defeat, Harry Potter finds himself hiding from newspaper reporters in a store in Knockturn Alley. After a conversation with the shopkeeper, he decides to seek the answer to a question he's had since fifth year...


Disclaimer: Rowling created Harry Potter. I'm glad she lets us play with her world.

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><p>"Mr. Potter, could we get a statement?" "Mr. Potter…" "Harry!" "Just a word, Mr. Potter!"<p>

Eighteen-year-old Harry Potter picked up his pace, weaving his way between the crowds of people that had returned to Diagon Alley and cursing the fact that the newspaper reporters had spotted him. In the months following Voldemort's defeat, his fame had reached new heights, and he was, quite frankly, sick of all the attention. He could barely leave his house without being swarmed by reporters, but this was a trip he needed to take if he was to return to Hogwarts in September. The black-haired teen swore again, as the number of voices increased; the crowd finally realized who the reporters were chasing and were eager to see their savior to congratulate and thank him for his actions. Said savior would rather they left him in peace, but he knew that would never happen.

Hurrying past several stores, the wizard briefly considered hiding in one of them, before discarding the idea; there was an entire crowd of people keeping an eye out for him and the shopkeepers were sure to advertise the fact that he entered their particular store. None of his usual school shops were even considered, since every Hogwarts student was known to go there. Gringotts, well, the goblins still weren't very happy with him and he had a feeling they would just throw him back to those vultures as revenge. And Ollivander's was more of a personal thing; he still found the elderly wandmaker creepy.

Desperate now, Harry scanned the Alley and his gaze landed on the dark entrance to the dodgy Knockturn Alley. He hesitated briefly, knowing of the Alley's reputation and imagining what the newspapers would say if he was noticed down there. He shook off his thoughts with a shudder; the media wasn't something he really wanted to think about. So, with a quick glance to make sure no one had recognized him, the emerald-eyed wizard slipped down the path towards Knockturn Alley, pulling up his hood so he wouldn't be bothered.

The Alley hadn't changed much, since his first visit; it was still dingy and dark, but there were more people milling about than there were when he followed Draco Malfoy to Borgin and Burkes before his sixth year. Harry supposed with the end of the war, the usual inhabitants were cautiously returning, as they hadn't forgotten what the previous Ministers did during the war, though he noticed that the store windows remained clear of anything that could indicate anything questionable.

As the sound of footsteps approached the entrance to Knockturn Alley, the messy-haired wizard darted into the first shop he felt was safe. The noises from the crowd of reporters were muffled by the door, but Harry could tell that they hadn't ventured down Knockturn Alley; no doubt they'd decided that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, their Chosen One and Savior, would never dream of stepping one foot in a place with such a reputation for the Dark Arts. He snorted quietly to himself. If they knew that he'd cast two of the three Unforgivables during the war, they'd have a field day. Or they'd excuse him and fawn over him even more.

Scowling at that thought, Harry pushed his hood off and looked around to see what kind of shop he'd entered. It was surprisingly well-lit and clean, though its windows were as dusty as Borgin and Burkes. Maybe there was a charm on the windows that only let a certain amount of light through, he mused, because the teen was sure that the shop didn't look this respectable from the outside. He stepped to the left and scanned the rows of shelves, curious about the shop. There were scales and vials, quills and parchment, ink and amulets. In fact, he thought, glancing at the other walls, this place reminded him of the junk shop in Diagon Alley where Ron and he had found Percy the same day he'd first stepped foot here.

"Hello?"

Harry jumped at the grumpy voice breaking the silence and spun around with his wand out, prepared to fight. His gaze landed on the woman behind the counter, who quirked her eyebrow at his response. She was a rather plump, broad-shouldered witch, with serious brown eyes and her brown hair tied in a bun. For some reason, she reminded him of Molly Weasley, Professor McGonagall, and Hagrid, all at the same time. Embarrassed, he put his wand away and looked to the side.

"…Sorry about that. I'm still a little jumpy."

An amused glint entered her serious brown eyes.

"I noticed," she drawled.

An awkward silence fell, as the woman continued to observe him and he kept his gaze away from her. Now that she was here, though, the random trinkets and things couldn't keep his attention, and the famous wizard reluctantly turned back to this shopkeeper.

He nervously cleared his throat. "So, um, who are you?"

A smirk tugged at her lips. "Considering you entered my shop, I should be the one asking that question." Her eyes then made the familiar, irritating flick to his forehead, before meeting his emerald eyes again. "But, then again, you're Harry Potter."

He waited, shifting from foot to foot, for her response, never breaking eye contact. Briefly, the black-haired teen wondered if she was using Legilimancy, but he didn't feel anything touching his mind, so he continued to wait. A few more seconds passed before she nodded decisively, as though coming to a decision.

"I am Morgan. This shop is called Morgan's Mysterious Matters and I sell…junk," she said businesslike with a shrug. "Was there anything in particular that caught your interest?"

"Um…no," Harry replied, caught off guard by her sudden change in tone. "I wasn't actually looking for anything when I came in here."

"Hmm." She drew out the sound, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously. He shifted his weight and tried not to look too guilty. "Was there any particular reason you entered my shop then?" There was a note of disbelief in her voice.

Harry pushed down the angry part of him that wanted to yell at her for her doubts; he was telling the truth! Instead, he threw a scowl in the direction of Diagon Alley and answered, "One of those bloody reporters that's always on my tail spotted me, while I was having a drink in the Leaky Cauldron." He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "As if they have nothing better to do." Morgan would have pointed out that those reporters probably fought over who got to tail him, but a glance at the teen's face convinced her to hold her tongue, though she struggled to keep a straight face. "Of course, the moment one of them spots me, an entire crowd forms and begins to ask questions and for photos and autographs. I tried to lose them in Diagon Alley, but it's broad daylight and those vultures have keen eyes." He shrugged helplessly. "So, I decided to hide in one of the shops, but none of Diagon Alley's would work because every Hogwarts student enters the same shops and those shopkeepers would tell the whole bloody world if Harry Potter chose their shop to hide in. While I'm trying to figure out where I _can_ go, I spot the entrance to Knockturn Alley and head that way; after all, as the 'figurehead for the Light,'"—his voice turned sarcastic and she continued to listen in growing hilarity—"I would have no business going down Knockturn Alley. Anyway, I hear them coming towards the entrance and I duck into the first shop I feel safe near." He paused, before finishing lamely, "That's why I'm here."

She stared at him for a few moments, trying to stifle her laughter. "So…snigger…the only reason you're in here…snort…is because…chuckle…a bunch of reporters…were hounding you?"

The emerald-eyed wizard tossed her an annoyed glare, but she brushed it off. "Yes," he stated, a little stiffly.

At that, Morgan couldn't restrain herself anymore and began laughing, falling back into a chair hidden behind the counter as her legs failed to hold her up. "Famous Harry Potter," she gasped, becoming breathless in her hilarity, "defeater of You-Know-Who, running from a bunch of newspaper reporters." And she collapsed back into her glee.

"I'll have you know that reporters can be worse than Voldemort," protested said famous wizard, though his lips were also twitching. When put that way, the situation did look ridiculous, and he was glad to see that Morgan didn't flinch when he said Voldemort, though he wasn't sure that she had even heard him say it. As she calmed down, they shared a grin and Harry conjured a chair near her counter.

They sat in comfortable silence, each lost within their own thoughts. Harry was marveling at Morgan's respectability and wondering whether Knockturn Alley had other shops which did not fit with its reputation. Maybe Morgan would know which ones those were, as they seemed to be very well hidden within the dingy alley. There were a couple things he wanted to look up that he was sure he wouldn't be able to find in Diagon Alley.

On the other hand, Morgan admitted that the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice wasn't what she expected. She knew that the _Daily Prophet_ was rather biased and controlled by the Ministry, but she'd always thought of the boy as a troublemaker. She'd known both the Marauders and Lily Evans at Hogwarts, after all, and she remembered worrying about the state of the castle's stability. Their son, though, was…well, quiet, which she could never recall Evans or Potter being, and there was this strength about him that made her like the boy.

"So," she said, breaking the silence. Harry looked at her curiously. Morgan was eyeing him again with that measuring gaze. "You really only came here to hide from the vultures?"

Annoyed, he answered, "Yeah. Why, did you think I came in here for something else?"

She studied him again, before replying with an amused voice. "You really don't know?"

"I wouldn't be so confused if I did," he scowled at her. Now what was she talking about, he thought, exasperated.

"Alright, alright," she responded, backing off. Leaning back in her chair, she continued, "See, Ollivander's isn't the only wandmaker in London. He's just the most well-known and well-recommended. He's also firmly focused on wands, wandlore, and magic; there's no worry about him being or doing anything more. The other wandmakers, though, have their own loyalties. To political groups, to the government, to money." She shrugged. "They're…less reliable."

"And you're one of those other wandmakers, aren't you?" Harry asked, piecing it together.

"Right in one." Morgan smiled grimly. "Of the other wandmakers, I'm the easiest to find, as I stay here most of the time, but I'm also one of the hardest to convince to make a wand. There's only five or six Morgan wands floating around out there, compared to Ollivander's hundreds or thousands."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Harry was confused, but he had a sneaking suspicion as to why she was telling him.

"I can see you've almost figured it out." She waited, raising an eyebrow at him.

"You're…offering to make me one," he said flatly.

"Right again." She smirked.

He paused, wondering how to say what he wanted to without offending her. While he was taken aback and flattered by the offer, he didn't exactly want another wand; his own wand had served him well over the years. "What if I don't want it? I'm happy with the one I got when I was eleven and it hasn't failed me since."

"Thought you'd say that," she muttered, confusing Harry even more. If she knew he'd refuse, why would she offer it anyway?

"See, the thing with my wands is that they aren't pre-made," she explained patiently. "Did Ollivander give you the whole 'the-wand-chooses-the-wizard' speech?" At his nod, she continued, "Well, it's the same basic thing, only every piece of the wand chooses you, not just the finished product. The wandwood and the core choose you, while the length remains the same as your first one." Glancing at the sleeve where he'd hidden his wand, she added, "Besides, your holly-and-phoenix-feather wand is recognizable."

"How'd you—never mind." He remembered that the Triwizard Tournament had had reporters covering it, not to mention Rita Skeeter.

"Anyway, now that you've defeated…well, Him, every witch and wizard, reporter and author around the world will be digging through every newspaper clipping and article they can find to get any information they can on you, since you've avoided the interrogators for the past two months. Everyone's going to know what your wand's made of," she stated matter-of-factly.

The teenaged wizard groaned. Now that it had been pointed out to him, it seemed obvious that, as a famous person, he'd have people trying to find out all about him and try to copy him. Hadn't he seen the lengths fans would go to in the Muggle world?

"And as a wandmaker, I'm _supposed_ to register every wand I make with the Ministry," Morgan added slyly. "'Supposed to' being the key words. However, since most of my wands could be considered Dark because of their components…" She trailed off, letting Harry come to his own conclusion. Objectively, he knew she was just giving him reasons to get another wand, trying to convince him that two wands would be useful, and probably just trying to use his name; subjectively, he had to say it was working.

Briskly, she continued, "I keep a record of the wands I make, as I like to know what they're being used for, but it's not my place to tell someone what to use them for. Anyway, it's your choice: if you want another wand, we'll get started right away; if not, well…" She shrugged.

Thinking about her offer, Harry realized that there didn't really seem to be a downside to it. He'd get a second wand that the Ministry can't track, that's not recognizable, and that wouldn't be associated with him. He had a second weapon and very few other witches or wizards would know he had it. The only downside he could see would be the cost and keeping it hidden. He was about to agree when another thought struck him.

"How would this affect my phoenix-feather wand? I've never heard of a wizard with two wands, after all," Harry said worriedly. He didn't want to find out that he wouldn't be able to use his holly wand after getting this other one. And Ron and Hermione would be suspicious if he suddenly started using a different wand. "And how much would it cost?"

"Well, as far as I know, having another wand doesn't really affect the wielder's original. You should be able to use both equally in your wand hand," Morgan replied. "The cost would depend on what your new wand's components are."

Harry still hesitated. What about the Elder Wand? Since he was still its master, would having three wands' allegiance affect anything?

"What about if you have more than one wand's allegiance? Does that change anything?"

"Nope," she replied immediately. "It doesn't matter how many wands have given you their allegiance; it only affects the magic that emerges from those wands."

"In that case, alright; I'll get another wand," answered Harry, feeling like he'd made a huge decision. And in a way, he had. He would be able to try spells that he normally wouldn't have even looked at because he couldn't be tracked, especially since he'd been getting curious about what other people found so fascinating about the Dark Arts. Before his fifth year, he'd always felt as though something would stop him from casting a Dark spell, if he ever tried it, because he'd always seen himself as a Light wizard. However, with his first casting of the Cruciatus Curse, a small part of his mind began wondering. What was the difference between a Dark and Light spell? Did the Dark Arts really corrupt their users? How and why did they corrupt the witches and wizards that used them? And now that he'd defeated Voldemort and was planning to return to Hogwarts, he had plenty of time to go through the books in the Black library at Grimmauld Place (whatever hadn't been thrown out, which, knowing Sirius and his own luck, had probably been all the books that he'd find his answers in) to look for his answers between helping rebuild Hogwarts and the funerals.

Morgan nodded, standing up and motioning at Harry to follow her to the back of the store. She led him to a trapdoor set in the floor, where she kneeled and waved her wand, muttering something. The door popped open and she descended, Harry following her warily, down a stone staircase carved from the wall, into a brightly-lit basement. When the emerald-eyed wizard reached the bottom of the stairs, she gestured at their surroundings, saying, "This is where I keep everything I need to make my wands."

The first thing he noticed was the way the room felt like Ollivander's. The very air felt like it was charged with electricity and tingled with magic. On their left were barrels of woods, each piece a cylinder, about sixteen inches in length and one inch in diameter. From where he stood, the teen could see many different-colored cylinders, and he would bet that the barrels were almost full of them. On their right stood shelves filled with jars of things, separated into two sections. Harry shivered. That wall reminded him of Snape's classroom. Ahead of them was another door and he wondered what was behind that. Seeing his gaze, Morgan explained, "That's where I actually make the wands. Wouldn't want any other magics to contaminate a wand, while you're making it; if you're lucky, nothing happens."

"…and if you're unlucky?" Harry ventured hesitantly.

Her answer was ominous. "You'd just better hope you're lucky." The wandmaker continued conversationally, "That's why you don't get too many wandmakers. One mistake while you're making it and, well, the results are never pretty. Especially if you're unlucky," she finished darkly. Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Morgan pointed towards the barrels. "You're going to want to start over there. Need to have something to put the cores in, after all."

The wizard had only taken a few steps towards the barrels, before Morgan called his name. "I almost forgot. I'm going to need to take your wand. It makes it impossible for anyone to figure out what their magic likes best because it'll keep going back to their wand."

Reluctantly, Harry handed over his wand, feeling extremely vulnerable seeing his wand in her hands. As soon as she had the wand, Morgan strode to the door and heaved it open so that Harry could hear and see what was going on inside. Curious, he peeked inside. A solid stone desk was the first thing he saw. Morgan was leaning over it with his wand on the table and a strip of measuring tape in her hands. She looked up and raised an eyebrow, when she saw him watching, at which he flushed and went to the barrels.

He had no idea how he was supposed to figure out which wandwood his second wand would be made out of. Glancing at all the barrels, Harry began to doubt Morgan's abilities. Why did he believe she was a wandmaker when he'd never heard of her? Granted, she'd already said that there were lesser-known wandmakers, but wouldn't he have heard of some of them? And why did he agree to this anyway? Could she have used Legilimancy to persuade him to buy one? Even though he hadn't felt anything in his mind, he knew he was no good at Occlumency and, therefore, probably wouldn't even realize the idea hadn't been his in the first place.

While he was worrying, though, he didn't notice that he'd taken steps towards one barrel in particular and was rummaging through it, as though he knew exactly what he wanted. By the time he realized that he'd moved, he was holding a white piece of wood. Harry blinked at the piece of wood, bemused. How had he known to get this piece of wood? The teen turned back to the barrel and picked up another piece of wood, this one darker than the first. As he looked between the two, he felt a…nudge towards the first piece that he'd picked up, as though something was saying, "Take that one. That's the one. It's that one."

Confused, but acquiescent, Harry put back the second piece of wood and returned to Morgan's workroom. Knocking lightly on the door, he waited for her to look up at him, before holding up the piece of wood and saying, "I think this is the one."

Morgan went up to him and took the piece of wood, examining it with her eyes and fingers. Harry felt that same sense of vulnerability and loss that he had when he'd handed over his holly wand and made a frustrated sound, running his hand through his hair. Morgan turned her searching gaze to him, confused for a second, before she realized what was wrong.

"I didn't explain how you find the pieces for your wand, huh?" she asked, slightly apologetic and sympathetic.

"No," Harry replied shortly.

"Well, it's basically like this…sense of things," Morgan tried to explain. "You…feel which pieces are the right ones. There's this kind of tugging? that points you in the direction of your wand components. A little bit like when you use one of those simple spells. It's like a gentle tug." She looked helplessly at him. "Am I making any sense?"

"A little," he said. That would explain the nudge he'd felt when he'd been comparing the two woods. "Are you supposed to feel vulnerable when it gets taken away? Like you've lost your wand?"

She smirked at him, confident in her work again. "Exactly."

"Oh. Then that's the wood." Harry pointed at the piece of wood in her hands.

"Alright. Now go figure out what your core or cores are." Morgan waved her hand towards the jars on the other wall and returned to her workroom.

This time, Harry didn't bother looking to see what she was doing; he hurried over to the rows of shelves, excited to see what his wand's core could be. The first section of the shelves was the usual Ollivander wand cores: dragon heartstrings, phoenix feathers, and unicorn hairs. The messy-haired wizard only paused long enough to determine that there was nothing pulling him that way, before he moved on to the next section.

Every jar caught his attention in this section. There were parts and pieces of griffins and hippogriffs, thestrals and centaurs, werewolves and vampires, dementors and banshees, hags and goblins and so many other things that Harry felt like he was eleven again, entering Diagon Alley for the first time. He wondered how Morgan had even gotten some of those things and how they were supposed to be put into a wand. But, while he marveled at all the contents of the jars, he was alert for the nudge that would indicate his wand core. He passed jar upon jar of magical parts: hippogriff feathers, griffin feathers, thestral blood, werewolf fur, vampire fangs. None of them received so much as a twitch from whatever it was that indicated his wand parts. By the time he reached the end of the shelf, he'd found one jar, full of vials, that had gotten a half-hearted nudge from his sense.

A little downtrodden, he returned to Morgan's workroom and knocked again. This time, when she saw his expression, she got up and took the jar from him, examining its contents. Satisfied, she faced him and waited for his response.

"All I got was this half-hearted nudge towards this one, like the sense got lazy or something," he explained. "Nothing for the rest of them."

Morgan raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Out of all those jars, you only got one half-hearted nudge?" She shook her head before he could reply, smirking. "Ollivander did say you were a challenge."

"You've talked to Ollivander?" he asked shocked.

"Of course." She gave him a look that said 'are you stupid?' "We wandmakers like to talk about some of our customers and the wands we make, though it's usually me listening to him chatter on about the next set of wands he sold." The brown-eyed witch opened the jar, taking out the vials inside. "Alright, so which of these vials is it?"

"Oh, um…" Harry closed his eyes and let the sense point out the vial. "That one." He opened his eyes to find Morgan giving him another measuring look. "What?"

"Later," she replied. Morgan returned the other vials to the jar and returned to the shelves to replace it. Harry followed with a sigh; though he still didn't like people keeping things from him, he felt that Morgan would explain eventually.

Once she'd placed the jar back where it belonged, the witch faced Harry and said, "Do you still have anything magical in your pockets? Because they also interfere with the sense."

The teen began to shake his head, before remembering the vial he'd brought with him. Before he'd left Hogwarts the day before, he'd gone down to the Chamber of Secrets and opened it. He'd had a feeling that he should have a vial of basilisk venom with him, though he had no idea why he would need it; as his instincts had (mostly) protected him in the past, he didn't doubt them now. He'd also found that he was still a Parselmouth, which had been a shock, as he'd attributed that particular skill to the Horcrux inside of him. He paused.

"Well, I have a vial of basilisk venom," he recalled, pulling the vial out of his robes. Now that it was in his hand, he became aware of a half-hearted tug towards the vial that he hadn't noticed before.

"Basilisk venom?" Morgan was staring incredulously at him. "Where did you get basilisk venom?" She cut him off, as he opened his mouth to answer. "I mean, I know it's from a basilisk, but where in the bloody hell did you find a basilisk?"

"I wasn't about to say 'from a basilisk,'" grumbled Harry irritably. Glancing slyly at her, he casually inquired, "Did you know that there's a basilisk at Hogwarts?"

"You've got to be kidding me. A basilisk at Hogwarts?" she demanded. "Let me guess: you were the one who killed it, while you were still there."

He smiled innocently at her. Morgan rolled her eyes. "Of course you did." Returning her attention to the vial, she asked, "So is this it?"

"It's also half-hearted," Harry reported uncertainly.

"Good. It's supposed to be like that," she replied decisively.

"Really?" Harry followed her back to her workroom. "I would have thought it would feel like finding the wandwood."

"That's only if you have a single core," Morgan explained, "but since you have multiple cores, you'd only feel that half-hearted tug."

"Oh." Harry looked at the pieces on the worktable. A white cylindrical piece of wood, a vial of a clear liquid, and a vial of a dark liquid.

"Alright. Now I'm supposed to explain these components to you," Morgan stated, eyeing the parts speculatively. They were an interesting combination. Both the wood and the first core made sense; in fact, they matched his original wand. But the basilisk venom had been a surprise. She hadn't expected the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice to be a mixture of Gryffindor and Slytherin; maybe Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, or even Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, but definitely not Gryffindor and Slytherin, although it did make a lot of sense. Well, she thought, shaking her head, it wasn't her place to judge; she just made the wands.

"Right, well, this is aspen; it symbolizes determination and overcoming fear and doubts," she began, holding up the white piece of wood. Replacing it, she picked up the vial of clear liquid. "And these are phoenix tears. This particular vial came from a phoenix that visited me last year; I had never seen him before and I haven't seen him since."

Harry felt a shiver go up his spine. Around this time last year, he had been attending Dumbledore's funeral, and he'd seen (or thought he'd seen) the image of a phoenix rising from the deceased Headmaster's body. No one had seen Fawkes since the man had died, either. Could the phoenix have been Fawkes?

"And this, of course, is the basilisk venom," finished Morgan, lifting up the vial of dark liquid. Carefully placing the vial next to the vial of phoenix tears, she looked directly into Harry's eyes. "It is not my place to ask why your magic chose these parts; I am only here to explain the pieces and to make the wand. You would know better than I the significance of these parts." She then stood up and gently shooed him out of her workroom. "Now get out and let me work." The door closed behind him.

Harry passed the next several hours pacing Morgan's storeroom, musing on his wand parts. Phoenix tears, he knew, had amazing healing properties. It had been Fawkes' tears that had saved his life when he'd been poisoned by the basilisk in the Chamber in his second year and that had healed his leg when he'd been injured by the acromantula in the maze in his fourth year. He wasn't sure why he'd gotten the tears, though; his phoenix feather in his original wand seemed to represent him better. Twice, now, he'd had the Killing Curse shot at him and twice it had hit him. As he was still standing here, it was obvious that both times, it had failed. He'd shouldered a burden much larger than he should have for sixteen years, so he supposed that fit. And he remembered what Neville said: that his defiance of Umbridge during their fifth year had given people hope and strength; maybe he did fit the characteristics of phoenixes exceptionally well.

He could understand aspen, as well. It was his determination that carried him through every obstacle that came across his path. From the Dursleys to Voldemort, dementors to Death Eaters, he had been determined to overcome them and prove that he could survive, despite their efforts to the contrary; aspen, he thought, was rather appropriate.

But basilisk venom. That, he wasn't so sure about. Yes, the Sorting Hat had suggested that Slytherin would help him on his 'way to greatness,' but he hadn't thought that it would extend to his wand. Now that he did a bit of self-examination, though, he could (reluctantly) recognize the Slytherin traits that the Hat had seen seven years ago. He was self-sufficient (had been from a young age), he did whatever had to be done to complete certain tasks (walking to his own death to ensure all the Horcruxes would be destroyed), he was a Parselmouth, he was resourceful, he'd been sly and cunning while on the run from Voldemort and the Death Eaters. All in all, he could be a right, slimy Slytherin when he wanted. It probably hadn't helped that he'd had basilisk venom running through his veins at one point in his life. Though, come to think of it, that could also be the reason he had phoenix tears, too; that _had_ been what saved his life.

As though she'd been waiting for him to come to terms with the parts of his wand, Morgan opened the door to her workroom, looking exhausted, but with bright eyes. He hurried over to her side, reaching out to support her, but she slapped his hand away, glaring at him briefly. Instead, she made her way over to the stairs, climbing them slowly, and left the basement, Harry following quickly; the trapdoor creaked shut and sealed itself behind them.

Falling into her chair behind the counter, she finally spoke to the wizard that had been following worriedly after her. "Well, I'm done. One 11" phoenix-tear-and-basilisk-venom wand for a certain famous Harry Potter." Said Potter briefly glanced at the quill that had jumped to attention and started scribbling away, before returning his attention to her.

"Are you okay? You've been in there for a long time and you look exhausted," he worried.

"Potter, just take the damn wand." And she thrust it into his hands. As soon as he gripped the handle, a heat ran up his arm, stronger than any he'd ever gotten from his holly-and-phoenix-feather wand, and he was thankful that he hadn't been holding anything else; he probably would have dropped everything else when he held his new wand. Amazed, he met Morgan's eyes and she returned it with a tired smirk, motioning for him to wave it. He did and out of the end came gold and silver sparks, which had turned red and green by the time they'd dissipated. With a yawn, Morgan asked, "Did you want to look at anything else?"

It took a couple of seconds for the question to register. "Oh, er, did you have any books on Animagi?" He hesitated. If he was going to do this, he might as well go all the way. "Or…um, Dark magic?"

She gave him an unreadable look, this time. "Animagi and Dark magic?" She leaned forward and disappeared behind the counter. "I'm assuming you want something that will help you become an Animagus and use Dark magic?" She didn't wait for him to respond, straightening up and placing two volumes on the counter. "These are probably what you're looking for, if that's the case." The first volume was about the size of a textbook, maybe a centimeter thick, with iridescent covers. "This one," she continued, "is _Animalis Anima_. As you can tell from the title, this one will help you become an Animagus." A wry smirk touched her lips. "It's also been restricted by the Ministry. 'Only _competent_ Transfiguration tutors or professors may use this text in the teaching of the Animagus transfiguration.'" She snorted. "Right. Anyway, this book," she said, patting the other volume, this one a solid pitch-black, "is _Magica: Lux in Tenebris_. It was written by two best friends, a Light witch and a Dark witch; I'm told they made it so that the book could track the owner's progress and interact with him." She smirked. "The Ministry, obviously, banned the book once they had a chance to examine it, but by the time they did, there was a healthy demand for it. It's been making Galleons ever since."

"What do you mean 'interact with him'?" Harry asked, eyeing the black book suspiciously. He hoped that book wasn't like the diary; he didn't want to deal with another Horcrux, after his past year.

"I mean that the two authors put a sort of impression of themselves within the original book," she said casually, stifling another yawn. "When the book's copied, the impression is copied also. It's nothing extremely Dark, though; that Dark witch was one of the good ones."

"Oh." Harry was taken aback. There were good Dark witches and wizards? But, thinking again, he realized that he couldn't really categorize people like that, as Snape hadn't been a Light wizard (that he was sure of), but he had been 'good.' And he could deal with impressions of dead people; after all, the Marauder's Map had impressions of the Marauders and he used that map all the time at Hogwarts.

He pulled _Animalis Anima_ toward him and flipped through it. It looked to be thorough, though he wouldn't know for sure until he actually sat down and read it, but he could see that it was written in normal speech. Thankful for that, Harry closed the book and reached for the one on Dark magic.

Before he could put his hand on it, though, Morgan had grabbed his wrist, halting the movement, and frozen; Harry found his new wand pointing steadily at her. She released his wrist and calmly leaned back in her seat, yawning again, utterly unconcerned by the wand still threatening her.

"I had to stop you from touching the book. See those indentations?" she explained, pointing at two spots. Harry nodded. "If you had touched those before I sold the book to you, I would have had to charge you more for it."

"Why?" he asked curiously, lowering his wand, though he didn't put it away.

"Because the bloody thing would have been bound to you," she said tiredly. "These books are more expensive because each one becomes personalized for the owner. Every time you open it, you have to place your thumbs in those indentations. It takes a drop of blood and a pinch of your magic and uses them to determine what it will show next. The introduction is the same for every book, but the sections that will appear, and when they do, will differ from person to person. It's what makes this particular book such a liability; if the Ministry ever comes across the book, they only have to open it to the first page to see who it belongs to. And you can't sell it; after it's bound to one person, it won't bind to anyone else." Morgan scowled at the ground. While the kid was interesting to talk to, she really needed to sleep; making wands always exhausted her, and her customers usually left immediately afterwards. "So do you want them or not?"

"Yeah, I do," Harry answered. Her explanation had only peaked his interest; he wanted to know what that book contained and he wouldn't know unless he bought it. Besides, if the Ministry ever wanted to raid his house, which was highly unlikely, he could always ask Kreacher to hide it. "How much?"

"Thirty Galleons for the wand and twenty for the books," she stated, a little of her original briskness entering her tone. Harry wordlessly handed over the amount; it was expensive, but then, his wand's components were rare and difficult to come by. And he suspected that most of the price of the books could be attributed to the pitch-black volume.

With that, Harry thanked Morgan for the wand, books, and conversation (which was waved off with a faint smirk) and left, books hidden in his pockets and hood up to hide his face, returning to Grimmauld Place; he could see his friends in the morning. He had a quick meal, courtesy of Kreacher, and then headed up to get a good night's sleep; he would be busy testing out his new wand tomorrow. As he settled into his bed, he couldn't help thinking that he'd had an interesting day.

* * *

><p>As I stated in the summary, this is a oneshot, though in my mental timeline, this would be the middle piece. If I ever get the other parts up, there will be a short piece on Harry's trip to the Chamber of Secrets, which is mentioned here, and a multi-chpater story that takes place after this one.<p>

I really should have been working on my Naruto story, but this plot bunny came with a driven muse, and, as my Naruto muse is currently MIA, I went ahead and wrote this over the course of the past weekend. So, hope you enjoyed!


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